


flyweight love

by runnyc33



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Arc, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnyc33/pseuds/runnyc33
Summary: You both smile; or a diptych of processing.(one chapter written from Tessa’s POV, the other from Scott’s)





	1. you are in love (with all the world)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once, a therapist made you take a test to determine your love language. You handed it back to him, telling him you didn’t need to. Declaratively you stated, it’s physical touch. He sighed, asking you to humor him. It took four minutes for you to complete the test, and two for him to determine the results.
> 
> You nodded once, self-satisfied. You made a neat note of it in your notebook: _love language - physical touch_. Alright, you asked him, what’s next?

Once, a therapist made you take a test to determine your love language. You shifted on the leather couch, causing it to squeak, as he briefly described the five possible results - words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch - before handing over the test.

You handed it back to him, telling him you didn’t need to. Declaratively you stated, it’s physical touch. He sighed, asking you to humor him. It took four minutes for you to complete the test, and two for him to determine the results.

He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his hand over his eyes as he handed over the results. They were definitive.

Physical touch.

You nodded once, self-satisfied. You made a neat note of it in your notebook: _love language - physical touch_. Alright, you asked him, what’s next?

* * *

You pass him in the commotion of the arena hallway, voices reverberating, ringing laughter filling the space. Your hand traces a light line over his back while he talks to someone else, a hello, and he throws you a grateful smile over his shoulder as you continue down the hallway.

You two stand at center ice, the only sound the breathy exhales of exertion after a near perfect run through. When his fingertips trace your jaw and tap lightly at the apex of your chin, he’s telling you to look up, kiddo. Take it all in.

During a gala rehearsal, when you wrap him up in your arms, his back to your chest, and rest your forehead and feel the ripple of his breath under his skin, it’s comfort, it’s home. You’re asking for a place to rest. His arms wrapping up yours, warmth seeping into your skin, it’s a silent peace.

In the quiet of his kitchen, when his hand traces down your abdomen, dipping under your waistband to seek out the wetness below, it is reverence and appreciation and escape. When you push him onto your white couch, wrap your arms around him, and sink onto him, it’s synergy.

When the crowd roars its approval as your edges glide smoothly in line, the pattern crisp and fluid, your hair flowing in the wind, it’s love.

When you beam at each other after a brilliant performance, hands clasped together, it’s grace.

When it’s just the two of you, sharing contact, it’s ease.

* * *

It’s when words become involved that your communication falters, you find. Words are so futile, so easily misconstrued. You don’t know when you became a cynic, but his words are never just words. There’s something behind them, an undercurrent, and you wish you could wade into the waters of his emotion, dipping your feet in, to understand it a little better. But do so, and the riptide will take you out.

He says he’s leaving. He’s seeing her, and he’s leaving you here, and you think to yourself this is how it ends. No longer the most important person in his world, but he’ll still be yours.

The words echo throughout the room, their meaning opaque. You struggle to comprehend but he doesn’t wait for you to understand. Communication, or lack thereof. You wish he would just reach out and touch you. His footsteps are heavy when he sighs loudly and walks away.

He stands at the doorway a moment. His back is to you, and you watch the muscles ripple as his fingers grip the door handle more tightly.

But then the door shuts with a dull thud, anticlimactic, and you think that can’t be it. You wait, thinking any second now, you’ll hear his feet turning around before the elevator, the knock at the door, the scrape as he swings it open.

You stand there, staring at the dark grain of the wood, the swirls etching themselves into your mind, while the world keeps turning silently around you. The sky fades, the light around you tinted red, before sliding into blackness. You can barely see, but the door is in perfect clarity, stark darkness against the light that filters in the cracks from the hallway.

You stand there, a sentry on guard, until the soles of your feet ache, until your legs shake, until your stomach growls and your eyes burn.

And then you turn and walk away.

* * *

You spend the next week reconnecting, rebooting.

You see a friend. He looms above you, tall and strong and dark, and his hand and yours intertwine as you stroll through a farmer’s market, pointing out the most malformed produce. Those are the ones you choose, the ones others would reject. His hand drops yours so you can dig out dollar bills from your pocket, but he immediately picks it up afterwards. You lean your head against his shoulder. Presence.

Your sister visits you, and the two of you frequent your favourite haunts. It’s an ordinary day – bright sunshine beaming down, surrounding you in its warm embrace, a light breeze rustling the leaves on the branches – and you’re walking along the street when you wrap her in a hug. She hugs you back, a tight squeeze, before slinging her arm around your shoulders and continuing in the direction of the creperie. Comfort.

You meet her in a bar, and when your tongue wraps around the cherry stem in your drink, she licks her lips. The bar is noisy, and when a loud fight breaks out, you lean forward to whisper in her ear, hand bracing yourself on her thigh. It’s not long before you’re seeking out the comfort of her warmth in your bed. She twists her hands in your hair as your tongue and fingers work in tandem, pushing her over the edge. Power.

A cup of hot cocoa sits in front of you on the coffee table, steam rising from it gently. Your fingers trace absent-minded patterns on your arm as you look out the window, studying the falling leaves. Serenity.

Your mother hums and rubs your back when you get the text message he’s returning. Love.

* * *

You didn’t fall apart when he left.

You don’t fall apart when he comes back, a smile on his face. His laughter surrounds you, tracing uneasy patterns across your skin, disturbing the peace of your home.

He wraps you in a hug, but pulls back before you can breathe in even once. Discord.

He tells you that you must meet her, and you smile and nod. You ask questions about his trip, and he speaks a mile a minute, the pacing almost too fast to follow – he reaches once, to accent a point with a squeeze on your bicep, but recoils before he touches, as though you burn. Dissonance.

The words he speaks become orchestration, background noise for your thoughts. You drift in it. In your head, you see that closed door, the bulk of it dark against the light that filters through the cracks. You see it shut, and you think to yourself how satisfying it would be to throw yourself against it, beat it to a pulp with your fist, until the blood drips from your knuckles, raw and torn. Loss.

Your back straightens and you let the smile come to your lips, and you tell him how lovely it would be to welcome her back home. The resentment is bitter on your tongue, a rusty taste, when you think of having to share him with someone else. When he leaves, you don’t hug.

The slam of the door reverberates. You place your palm against it. Strength.

* * *

Cold fingers nimbly lace up boots, pulling tight on the laces. The door flies open, making you jump. He walks through, skates slung over his shoulder. A quick smile graces your lips as you stand when he sits to lace up.

The ice is strong and smooth beneath your feet, the rasp of your skates striking it a lullaby. You let your gloved hands run along the sides of the boards. Stability. You push away, the momentum carrying you faster, faster.

He slips into pace next to you, a solid presence looming silent and strong. Gently, his arms extend, and he has your gloved hand in his, his other resting on the swell of your hips.

You pull off your gloves and shove them in your pockets. He smiles at you gratefully, as your bare skin makes contact with his, your hand small in his grip. You run your one hand over his where it rests on your hips.

Contact.

It’s easy. It’s faith. It’s you and him, alone in the world.

The ice welcomes you home.

* * *

The first time you see her with him, you think to yourself that it’s a good thing. The party is loud, the chattering clamorous and grating. His hands trace over her back lightly, and she beams up at him like he hangs the moon. He looks down at her and scrunches his nose and smiles, before placing a kiss on her forehead.

She makes you laugh almost immediately, cracking a corny joke that reminds you of his, the smile on her lips daring you not to be amused. You’re at the bar when a chill shimmies up your back, your sixth sense; the frown spreads across his face, signaling his souring mood during a conversation with one of your sponsors. You sigh and place down your drink, smoothing your hands over your dress to get ready to insert yourself into the conversation.

But with a smile, she pulls him away, leading him to a corner, before leaning forward and speaking into the shell of his ear, her hand tracing soothing patterns in his hair. His grin is swift and brilliant.

He’s safe. They’re happy. And you realize with a jolt that you are too.

You have the freedom to run, to hide, to fly. You can say yes and no and make decisions at a whim. You chase down every moment, and you don’t answer to anyone. You have your independence, and you have your best friend, and your shoulders are light.

You lean back against the bar and pick up your drink, studying the crowd. You study them.

He looks at her like she’s comfort and happiness, and, your eyes meeting across the room, he looks at you like you’re home.

In the darkness at the back of the ballroom, you see the closed door. Suddenly, it swings open, and on the other side is brilliant possibility.

You smile.


	2. through the wilderness (you find in me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once, in the heat of a therapy session, frustrated and mad by your inability to make her understand, you told her that it’s like a seesaw. Sitting, you studied your hands. It’s like a seesaw, you explained, voice quiet, where your emotions teeter and totter violently from one extreme to the next. And, you said, looking at her, the only one who can make it stop is her.
> 
> Her face cycled through shock, fear, and finally, resignation.
> 
> Your eyes stung with tears.

Once, in the heat of a therapy session, frustrated and mad by your inability to make her understand, you told her that it’s like a seesaw. She frowned up at you, and your therapist motioned for you to explain further.

Sitting, you studied your hands. It’s like a seesaw, you explained, voice quiet, where your emotions teeter and totter violently from one extreme to the next. And, you said, looking at her, the only one who can make it stop is her.

Her face cycled through shock, fear, and finally, resignation.

Your eyes stung with tears.

* * *

Years later, and it’s still the same.

Her smile is the lighthouse that brings you home.

Her hand is a solid weight on your back, reminding you to breathe, and instinctively, your body shuffles closer, leaning into the comfort of her presence.

When the two of you stand at center ice, waiting to skate - it’s chaos. The stands are loud, applause thundering down around you. The advertisements splashed across the boards demand your attention with exclamation points and capital letters. But the music starts, and your world narrows to her: her dress swings lightly around her body; her graceful movements echo every note; her brilliant green eyes are locked with yours, beckoning you closer, entrancing you.

Bringing her higher and higher is grace and pride and centering - your world narrows to just her. She opens beneath you. When your palms brush against her inner thighs, they part, and you swipe your tongue across her center. When you push into her, she meets your movement, slowing time down as you work together.

It’s when she leaves, and she always, always leaves, you fall. You don’t resent her leaving - you know she’s bound for bigger and greater things,

You can’t find stable footing. You find solace in the dullness of drink, but it fades. You find joy in coaching, but when the kids leave, you stare out at the ice, willing her to come back and hold your hand again.

She always does. She saves you, again and again and again, shoulders heavy under your weight, turning away from adventure to cradle your face in her hands.

You okay?, she whispers, and you nod.

Her eyes look back towards the horizon, longing.

* * *

So, you think, you’ll leave first; you’ll set her free.

The words rush out, untethered to thought - just an emphasis on your need to leave, right now, to go be with your girlfriend. And as soon as you say them, you wish you could shove them back in, because her light goes out.

It’s the only way you know how to describe it, when her face falls so suddenly it’s like someone flicked a switch. It comes back on, gradually, but stormy. All you want to do is kiss her forehead and say: you keep me safe, but I am an anchor, deadweight slowing you down. But you don’t.

You leave.

You turn your back on her, pulling open her front door. The fluorescent light above blinks, on and off, and you wonder if it beats in time with your pounding heart, or does it beat in time with hers? The stimulus is overwhelming, overpowering; your vision wavers.

Your hand grips the door handle tightly, steeling yourself. All you want is to turn around, all you want is her to smooth away the chaos, but you don’t. You can’t. You don’t deserve it now.

You close the door and you walk away.

* * *

You visit your girlfriend.

She smells like sunshine, cooks you meals, and cuts your hair. She pulls you onto the patio with her to stargaze and wraps you both in blankets. She is stable and sure, but you circle in erratic orbit around her.

She is fireworks, exploding across your body; she sets your world on fire, sensation shivering down your spine, flames licking at your fingers. You feel invincible, untouchable, floating. You climb mountains, her hand in yours, and it’s triumphant, overwhelming.

It makes the crashes more abrupt.

Food loses its flavour, clothes are abrasive on your skin. The sun shining is a personal affront on you, and you scowl from behind sunglasses. You lie her down in bed, and break her apart, piece by piece, until she comes, nails scraping your back, but once she falls asleep, you lie next to her, studying the stars outside the window. You wish you could cry for the discomfort you feel in your own skin.

She notices. She doesn’t leave, anyway. She brings you to the rink, shoving a pair of beat up loaner hockey skates in your hands, and tells you there’s a rec league in there that’s desperate for your help, stone hands and all. You smile at her, recognizing the offering. It’s not perfect, but it helps, you realize, as you crow in joy when you score a goal.

Laughter bubbles out of you as you leave the rink, the high of victory propelling you forward, and she’s there - leaning up against her car, a hand over her face to shade from the bright sunlight as she looks towards the door. She’s still here, you think, she’s actually still here. You sweep her up into your arms, planting a kiss on her lips as you swing her around. You lace your hands together when she drives home, and she doesn’t pull away from you once.

It gets easier, then, suffering through the disquiet. When your nerves start to jangle, you can run them out, not afraid you’ll return to an empty house. So you lace up sneakers and head onto the beach, sand pelting your skin as you set a brutal pace. You can’t breathe because you’re running too fast, laughing all the way, arms outstretched as though you could take flight.

* * *

The sun sets over the water, and you sit on the beach, alone. Your naked feet burrow into the soft, warm sand, and the waves occasionally lap at your ankles, a gentle, soothing rhythm.

Your body, on the other hand, is in motion. Your fingers drum incessantly against the side of your legs, a hectic pattern, uneven but fast. Your heart pounds through your chest. Your face is aglow, watching the colours melt across the sky.

The clouds are feathered, the sun’s reflection painting them red and orange and yellow, strong bold streaks colouring the sky and the water below them, reflecting up and down in a endless pattern.

You find yourself seeing your own history in it: the red of the flag you proudly wear splashed across your clothing, the orange you chose for the skate shop logo, the gold of the medals you so intensely chased, sacrificing time and family and sanity.

But gradually, the sky shifts. Red bleeds to pink, orange to blue, and the sky turns soft - like her. The pink is the same as her dress for your free dance, the blue the colour of one of her sponsors. The wispy loops of clouds are as graceful as her movements across the ice, the quiet lapping of the waves like her hands running across your body.

Your breathing slows.

Eventually, the sun slips far enough below the horizon and darkness spreads across the sky. You shake yourself out then, slinging your sneakers over your shoulder, and head back to the house where you know your girlfriend waits. She’s always there, always waits for you. There is no empty house.

A glance back to the sky reminds you that you can be grounded by her, even when she’s not there.

* * *

You head home to family, to her, and you forget to breathe.

You wear a smile when you visit her home, laughter bubbling out at the sight of her all at once, a strange discord in the air. You’re too much, too loud, too happy.

When you wrap her in a hug, you expect to be quieted, but instead your hand pats her back, once, twice, and you pull away quickly.

You’re bubbling with eagerness and energy, and the words slip out, telling her that she must meet your girlfriend. You wince slightly; it’s too early. But she smooths over it immediately, fixing your mistake, like she always does. Plastering on a smile, she nods, before asking you questions about your trip.  When you answer, you seek out the security of her gaze, hoping it will keep you from rambling, but she’s shuttered, closed off.

You reach out to grip her bicep, wanting her to know you’re there, but your body stops you - you can’t touch her, can’t add a weight, can’t be that anchor again.

Your leg bounces, and your gaze wanders around the apartment, trying to catalogue all the minute changes, even as you hold a conversation with her.

She has a photo shoot that afternoon - golden hour, you think to yourself, and imagine how the setting sun will illuminate the highlights in her hair - and so, too quickly, too soon, you’re leaving.

You resent it, suddenly, and the door slams behind you when you leave.

In the elevator, you cover your eyes, grinding your fists into them. The pattern on the carpeted floor is too bright, crawling up your skin, setting your mind alight.

At least with your eyes closed, all you see is the explosion of stars from the pressure on your synapses.

You think how nice space might be right now, a vacuum, the absence of everything.

Your girlfriend is waiting when you get to your house, a meal on the table and a glass of cold beer poured. You hand her the flowers you stopped at the corner store to get, and she thanks you with a smile and a light kiss, hand on your chest. While she cleans the dishes, you arrange them into a bouquet for the side table. Peonies. The smell triggers a wave of nostalgia, and your shoulders unclench.

* * *

She’s already there when you arrive at the arena, just finishing lacing her boots. She flashes a small smile at you, and you sit, settling into the rhythm of lacing, in and out, across, cinching tight, while her skates on the ice are a distant lullaby.

Your first stroke onto the ice is absent-minded - you don’t look at your feet but examine the banners hanging from the rafters - proud proclamations of current and past skaters’ successes - until you reach the one with your faces on it, golden medals hanging from your necks.

Her smile is brilliant.

You turn from the banner, seeking her out. As she approaches, you fall into her rhythm, sliding into place next to her, and gently, you extend to her.

Her gloved hand slides into yours. Your free hand rests on her hip, and you guide her with the briefest of squeezes. The world contracts to just you and her. Vaguely, you’re aware of people coming and going, of the occasional flash of a camera, but as far as you’re concerned, this is the entirety of your existence. You feel centered and peaceful and wrapped in her warmth. It’s a type of praying, really, as you stroke evenly together - more grace in every movement than a lifetime at church.

Her, face tilted in your direction, a broad smile on her lips, and you, breathless, watching her.

After a few hours of practice, she leaves, apologizing but needing to get ready for a photoshoot. A wave of your hand, and she’s gone. You stand at centre ice, alone, and wait for the world to rush back in.

It doesn’t.

* * *

Parties are not your favourite thing. Too many people milling about, clamouring for your attention, too many emotions running high and bleeding into yours.

You ask your girlfriend to come with you, to stay close by when you need her, and she accepts immediately. It’s the first time you’ll be introducing the two most important women in your life, you realize with a jolt.

When your girlfriend goes to check her coat, you’re alone in the din. You find yourself vacillating between frustration and nerves until she returns, sliding back into place. Your hand strokes the small of her back, and when she smiles at you, you place a kiss on her forehead.

 _She_ walks up then, clad in a green dress that highlights her pale skin and brings out the emerald depths of her eyes, and you smile at her. You introduce them, your girlfriend and your partner, and they both extend a hand, formal and stiff. But then your girlfriend tells a corny joke, and the two of them laugh, and they’re hugging - and you can’t think of a better sound than their laughter intertwined together.

She excuses herself to refresh her drink, green skirt swishing around her as she turns, and for a moment you look after her retreating back with longing. But your girlfriend rests her hand on your shoulder, and you’re here, present.

A sponsor comes over, loudly congratulating you on a bang up year. The conversation turns quickly from congratulatory; subtly, he hints of possible future work together, if only we could collaborate to more fully capitalize on your social media following. The fakeness - it jangles, setting off anger, that this is your life, that it is necessary to do this. A frown spreads across your face, and discontent licks at your skin.

Your girlfriend excuses you quickly, apologizing but she needs you urgently, and pulls you aside, into a dark corner. You crack a joke about her _needs_ , but she doesn’t laugh; instead, she leans forward, her breath hot against your ear. Her voice soft, she reminds you of the conversation you had last night, wrapped in each other’s arms: the house, made of red brick, a Canadian flag proudly flying; a picket fence a necessity so you can adopt a dog together; the grass green and lush for the soccer games their children will play. Piece by piece, you see the details of the life you want to build with her coming together.

You smile immediately, grinning and pulling her into a tight hug, hoping it conveys your gratitude. With a deep sigh and a nod, the two of you slip back into the crowd. Holding her hand, you feel at ease, knowing she’s right there whenever you need her - that she will always be right there for you.

When you look back at the bar, there’s the gleam of green silk, bright and bold, immediately grabbing your attention. She stands alone, leaning against the bar. Her tongue plays with the straw on her drink as she studies the crowd. Her face is curious, eyes narrowed and alight with passion and possibility.

You squeeze the hand on your girlfriend’s hip and look down at her; she’s already there, looking back at you, always waiting for you. She’s safety and stability.

You look back across the room and your eyes meet brilliant green: hers. She’s the most important person in your life. That will never change. But - as her eyes glance away, looking towards the darkness at the back of the room, and wonder spreads across her face - she’s free at last.

You both smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Hayley for beta-ing this. There were multiple times during this story when I coached myself with the words, “Write like Hayley” - I’m so grateful she was willing to help bring it to the next level.
> 
> This story was a labour of love - thank you to Marie for guiding this from an early stage (the entire second chapter exists thanks to her), to Chey for letting me rant at her for a solid ten minutes about my revamped Scott arc, and to Chrissy for very gently telling me what sucked and pointing out what she loved!
> 
> A huge thanks to the entire Writers’ Guild who kept me going when all I wanted was to throw this whole thing in the trash!


End file.
